


Rife

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 03:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11524050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Eönwë won’t let Olórin fade.





	Rife

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Transformation” [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3) and for this week’s silmread.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Olórin lies deep in the snow, packed hard and blistering, colder than anything that lived in the lands he once called _home_. Arien’s rise is hidden from him by the veil of mist that surrounds Celebdil, and all there is is a thick, oppressive haze. His skin smarts where the Balrog clutched him, wounds cutting deep and burns jagged across his wizened flesh. His beard is singed, his eyes gone dull. When he allows them to close, it’s a small relief.

He almost wants to slip away and thinks he might. He’d always meant to return by boat with all the friends he’s met here—the Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond, maybe even a few of the little folk he’s come to love. But it seems his body’s too battered to even stand, much less make it to the sea, and he accepts that this might be it. He tries to set his mind at peace: no good will come now of his worry.

But amidst the darkness of his mind, a single light remains. It starts as only a flicker, like a candle being felled by the wind, but it wavers closer, more vivid, until it’s blazing over all his sense, and he can even feel it warm him from so very far away. He knows the face that appears to him. He knows the long, white-golden hair, the clear, gentle eyes, and the handsome cheeks that draw up in a smile. It’s sad but very _fond_ , and a soothing voice whispers over him, _“It is not yet your time.”_

Olórin almost laughs. If he had the strength, he’d ask: _what do you know of it?_ and tease Eönwë endlessly, because Olórin was always just as strong and just as wise. But Eönwë reaches out to him now, tenderly touching his shoulders, his heart, brushing his greying hair from his face and the frost from his brow. Eönwë commands, stern and affectionate all at once, _“Rise now, Olórin. We will not lose you yet.”_

 _You have already lost_ , Olórin thinks, or maybe murmurs in his mind. _For the White Wizard has set his servants—_

“ _You are the White Wizard,”_ he’s told, _“Or at least, you will be whence you obey me. You have only shattered a shell, but we may give you a new one yet. You took a new form once, and you will transform again, more glorious than before.”_

Olórin hasn’t felt truly _glorious_ since he stood on the shores of Valinor, first marveling at the feeling of fresh sand between his toes, and Aiwendil running from his side towards the water, cooing at the fish. 

_If you could only see me now,_ he muses, and again Eönwë seems to hear, because he smiles, that gorgeous, boundless sort of grin that holds the light of the sun, stars, and trees all within its frame. They’ve never been particularly dissimilar, and yet Eönwë’s always felt so much _brighter_ to Olórin. 

And Eönwë speaks now like a Vala, one Olórin had best obey. Olórin’s too tired to refuse.

But he’s too tired to stand, and he doesn’t even sit up until he feels Eönwë’s strong arms beneath him, helping him to straighten. Eönwë’s strength is all around him. Eönwë bids him to his feet, until he stands, teetering lightly, against the shelf of the mountain. The wind whisks through his frail bones, and Eönwë whispers to him, _“You are no longer grey, my friend, but white as the swan and clouds. You are the White Wizard their world should have had. You are stronger now than you have ever been, and no fire, not even that of Mairon’s traitorous hands, could touch you.”_

Olórin doubts that. But he still breathes aloud, “Thank you.” And it seems to carry on the crisp air, echoing hollowly around him.

 _“The eagles will come,”_ Eönwë says. Whether he was the one to send them or not doesn’t matter. He’s already withdrawing from Olórin’s mind, leaving Olórin, once again, bitterly alone.

But Olórin’s never been _truly_ alone, not in the way that some suffer, like the poor creature Gollum or the twisted husk of Mairon. Olórin could whistle now for Aiwendil’s heart, and he could reach to Eönwë again if he truly _needed_ it, and he has eight friends now to soar to. And he has an Elven lady that awaits him in the golden woods, one he means to see again, even if he has to stumble down this mountain on only his two shaken feet.

Then Gwaihir cries in the distance, and Olórin spreads his arms for it, only to see them young and flushed again, ready still to _thrive_.


End file.
